


Edge of the Ocean

by genteelrebel



Series: Adam and Joe [2]
Category: Highlander: The Series
Genre: Beach Sex, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Romance, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-12
Updated: 2015-03-12
Packaged: 2018-03-17 13:28:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,847
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3531059
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/genteelrebel/pseuds/genteelrebel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Part of the Adam and Joe universe, set about 3 years after the main novel ends. Joe wasn't sure he wanted to go to Santorini on vacation, not when it was the same place Methos took Alexa.  But when he gave in and said yes, he got more than he ever expected.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Edge of the Ocean

**Author's Note:**

  * For [liz_mo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/liz_mo/gifts).



> Once again, this fic is dedicated to the wonderful liz_mo, who by the simple act of going to the beach on vacation with her honey (lucky guy!) both inspired this story and saved me from drowning in angst whilst I was writing the climax to A&J. She beta-read it too, thereby saving you all from a bunch of really awful run on sentences. Thanks, hon!
> 
> Other Notes: Yes, it has been pointed out to me…repeatedly…that in the real world, black sand beaches get much too hot in the sun to walk on comfortably. Just go with it, okay? :)

“At the edge of the ocean, we can start over again.” ~Ivy

****  
  
_~Santorini, Greece, Late Summer 2000~_  


On the island of Santorini, the beaches have black volcanic sand. It’s a beautifully unusual feature that is unusually beautiful. Sometimes, if you pick up a handful of sand and look closely, you can see tiny rainbows within it, each small grain acting like a prism to break the sunshine into colors. If you combine that with the blue, blue sky, the green, green sea, and the incredible colors you get in both when the sun sets at night…well.

Santorini is unquestionably one of the most beautiful places on earth.

To Joe Dawson, though, all the island’s beauty paled in comparison to the sight before him now. His lover, life partner, and all around reason for being was walking toward him up the beach, and suddenly the sand, the sea, and the sunshine were all superfluous. And it wasn’t just the fact that Methos was clad in an extremely skimpy pair of Speedo swim trunks that made the view so pleasant—after all, Joe had often had the privledge of seeing Methos wear far less. Rather, it was Methos’s expression, the all-too-unusual look of relaxed well-being that crinkled the Immortal’s eyes, that made the moment so noteworthy. “Hey you,” Joe said, holding up a bottle of water for his lover to take. “Nice swim?”

“Wonderful,” Methos answered contentedly, flopping onto the beach blanket next to Joe’s chair. Methos looked absolutely boneless after his long swim, and Joe couldn’t help but eye him greedily. Unlike Joe, who still needed to slather himself with sunscreen every few hours, Methos had started to tan practically from the moment they’d first stepped off the plane. His skin was now an extremely flattering light olive, a color Joe’s fingers itched to touch, just as his tongue yearned to lick away the saltwater still clinging to Methos’s chest. But this was a family beach, and even if it hadn’t been, Joe had never been into that kind of public display. He contented himself with looking instead, especially when Methos took the offered water and drank deep, head thrown back and throat muscles working in the very picture of sensual abandon. “And this from a man who’s insisted for years that he hated the water,” Joe said teasingly when Methos set the bottle aside. “Why didn’t you ever tell me that you loved to swim so much? We could have joined an athletic club with a pool.”

Methos gave a theatrical shudder. “And put up with acres of sterile cement and gallons of chlorine?” he said. “Don’t be silly, Joe. It’s hardly the same thing. Besides.” A slight shadow darkened the Immortal eyes. “I do hate the water in most places. Too many bad memories.”

Joe’s expression softened. During the last three years, Joe had learned more about Methos’s history than any human being ever had. The intimate knowledge of his lover’s past was a gift that Joe prized above any other possession. But sometimes it also caused him quite a bit of pain. Most Immortals born before the age of global air travel had survived a shipwreck or two in their time; Methos had been in dozens, more than enough to make him want to avoid large bodies of water for the rest of his life. Joe couldn’t even begin to imagine what it would be like to drown just to revive and drown again, let alone to spend days trying to keep a loved one afloat only to loose her to exposure anyway. “I’m sorry,” Joe said sincerely. “I shouldn’t have brought it up. But I am curious as to why this place is different.”

“It’s Santorini,” Methos said, as if that explained everything. Joe gave him his best patient expression. Methos smiled and shrugged, gesturing at the sand and sky. “It’s different here. The ocean around these islands is a friend, not an enemy. She actively welcomes her human visitors, helps hold you up, invites you to play. It’s…” Methos trailed off, catching Joe’s amused expression. “A bit hard to explain,” he finished. “But it really is different. Trust me.”

“I do. Believe me. One look at you would convince anyone.”

“Want to give it a try? Then you wouldn’t have to be convinced. You’d know first hand.”

“No.” Joe shook his head. “Thank you, but no. I think I’ll pass.”

“Why not? I know it’s been quite a while since you did your aquatherapy at the VA after the war, but swimming is like riding a bike. You never really forget how to do it. We’ll leave your legs here on the blanket, I’ll carry you in…”

Joe shook his head again, looking down at his feet. His heavy shoes and long sweatpants made him very conspicuous amongst the crowd of barefoot, swimsuit-clad vacationers peppering the beach. “No.”

“But…”

“No buts.” Joe pointed toward the water, where a group of four little girls, sisters ranging from about age two to age ten, were splashing together in the shallows. “I don’t think they really need that visual as part of their vacation memories, do you?” 

Methos’s happy expression wilted. “Joe…”

Joe interrupted him with a raised hand. “I know what you’re going to say,” he said. “And you’re right. I should be able to do what I want, and in a perfect world I would. In a perfect world nobody would stare, or point, or be traumatized for life by the sight of a legless man enjoying the water, because everyone would understand that things like that happen and I’m really not that different from anybody else. But this isn’t a perfect world. So I’m not going to do it…for the very same reason that I’m not going to kiss away that smudge of sand you’ve got on your cheek. Not because I don’t want to. And not because I think there would be anything to be ashamed of if I did. Just because we don’t live in a perfect world yet, and I’d rather spend my vacation soaking up the sun with the love of my life instead of fighting battles I can’t win. Make sense?” 

Methos didn’t answer right away. But his hand snuck up the side of Joe’s beach chair to Joe’s, covering Joe’s fingers with his palm. “I love you,” he said.

“I know.”

“Shall we go back to the hotel now?”

“Yeah. Yeah, let’s go.”

***

They packed up quickly, Methos slipping into a pair of loose island pants and a gauzy cotton shirt while Joe folded chairs and shook the sand out of the blanket. By the time they’d reached the hotel, Methos had that look of quiet desperation in his eye that told Joe he needed him and he needed him now. It was fortunate that Methos’s cover-up pants were very loose indeed, or else the Immortal would have caused quite a stir walking to their room. Joe smirked, hung a Grecian Do Not Disturb sign on the door, and pushed Methos toward the bed, knowing from experience that whenever Methos got into one of these moods he was more than willing to let Joe take the lead. Joe took his time, kissing the Immortal slowly while he unbuttoned his shirt and gently urged him down onto the mattress. When Methos was finally shirtless and stretched out, Joe had to catch his breath. The clean white hotel sheets were an even better backdrop for his beloved’s beauty than the black sand beach had been, and the look of needy agony on Methos’s face was loveliness personified. Joe shook his head. “God, but you’re amazing,” he said. “Do you have any idea how much I want you right now?”

Methos didn’t answer. All he did was look…but that look spoke volumes to Joe about the Immortal’s own desire, and the total trust he had in Joe to fulfill it. Joe let out an unsteady breath, crawled onto the bed, and got down to some serious Methos worship: licking away every last trace of the saltwater that had so tantalized him on the beach, following the licks with the long, sensuous sweeps of his hands he knew Methos loved to feel. When the Immortal’s breathing had changed from needy sighs and moans to even more desperate gasps and pants, Joe gave Methos’s navel a final, teasing lick, and slipped his hand inside Methos’s waistband. The cotton pants had been tented; the Speedo swim trunks were stretched absolutely taught, the still-damp fabric almost forming a second skin over Methos’s cock. Joe brushed his fingers lightly over the shaft, fascinated by the novel feel of his lover’s erection encased in the slick, shiny swimsuit material. Judging by the heartfelt groan that emerged from Methos, he was enjoying the novelty, too. “God,” Joe said reverently. “You are so…you feel…” 

Methos pushed himself up on his elbows before Joe could come up with an adequate word, awkwardly seeking Joe’s lips for a kiss. Joe gave up on speech altogether and kissed back instead, sensually rubbing the Immortal’s tongue with his own while he continued to tease Methos’s erection through the swimsuit. The Immortal pushed his pants down his legs and kicked them off his feet, and Joe had to break the kiss just to feast on the sight of what he’d already discovered by touch: Methos, hard, with the Speedos clinging to every bulge, looked like the x-rated version of a Calvin Klein ad. The urge to taste was irresistible. Joe bent his head, licking along the shaft through the swimsuit, the flavor of saltwater and nylon and Methos all mixing on his tongue. Delicious. And unbelievably erotic. Joe sucked the material into his mouth, away from the hot skin underneath, and knew that he wasn’t going to last all that long himself. Reluctantly he pulled away, then urged Methos onto his side so he could settle down behind his back. “Perfect,” he whispered against Methos’ shoulder, wrapping an arm around the lean waist so he could finally fist Methos’s cock through the swimsuit. 

The fabric stretched even tighter than it had been, making Methos cry out as it pulled against his sensitive crown and pressed against his balls. “So perfect,” Joe repeated, starting a tantalizing slow rub. “You have no idea how damn hot you look like this. It feels good too, yeah? Tight and slick?” No words from the Immortal, but Methos nodded jerkily and tried to hump himself harder into Joe’s encircling fist. “Yeah, I thought so,” Joe said, squeezing harder. “Want me to make you come like this? Not take off the swimsuit at all, just keep stroking you until you can’t hold back?” Emphatic head shake no. Joe lightened his touch. “What then?”

“Fuck me.” 

They were the first fully intelligible words Methos had said since they’d entered the hotel room, and the sound of them completely unwound Joe’s head. “Oh, yeah,” he breathed. “Go get the lube.” Methos nodded sharply and rose, graceful as a houri, to grab the bottle of lube from out of their suitcase. Joe saw him frown at the low level of liquid inside—it had been a very eventful vacation thus far—but there was still enough left to serve; Methos returned to the bed and placed the bottle in Joe’s hands. Then he silently dropped his swimsuit to the floor and stretched out on his stomach. 

God. Fourteen years since they’d first become lovers, three since they’d officially committed to spend the rest of their lives at each other’s sides, and sometimes Joe still couldn’t believe that he was lucky enough to have this. Was it really him, Joe Dawson, who was planting kisses on the center of Methos’s spine while the beautiful body writhed with the impatience underneath him? Was it really he who was lucky enough to be the one who teased Methos’s asshole open and slid his lubed fingers deep inside, making slick and ready what was already fire-hot with need? It *had* to be luck, random chance alone. Joe knew himself well, his good deeds and his bad, and even his most unselfish acts of kindness weren’t enough to have earned him this. Methos’s body was so hungry, so open; it was almost no time at all before Joe had four of his fingers buried in his lover’s channel, rubbing gently while the Immortal groaned. Joe suspected that he could have slid in the tip of his thumb if he wanted to, perhaps even drenched his hand in lube and slowly filled Methos with his entire fist. But the lube bottle was running low, and anyway, that wasn’t what his beloved had requested. Joe carefully slid his fingers out and lay on his back in the center of the bed, arms spread. “All yours,” he said huskily.

Wild eyed, Methos was over him in a second, hands shaking slightly as he fumbled to undo Joe’s pants. The Immortal groaned as he teased the last of the lube from the bottle and hurriedly slicked Joe’s hard, hard cock, then gasped as he straddled Joe’s hips and sank down onto him, too needy to tease, too desperate to wait. Joe watched, awed, as the beautiful eyes squeezed shut and the sensual mouth fell open, and felt a deep pang of regret. He hated the fact that his missing legs meant he couldn’t just throw Methos down on the bed and fuck him hard when Methos got like this, as every other male lover in Methos’s past had undoubtedly been able to do. But it couldn’t be denied that there was a kind of magic in doing it like this…magic in seeing the magnificent 5,000 year old body straining over his, magic in knowing that Methos wanted him enough to use his awesome strength to pleasure them both. Free of the swimsuit, now, Methos’s cock curved up hard and proud, and Joe reached trembling hands to touch it. Novelty be damned. *This* was perfection—the familiar feel of his lover’s cock so perfectly filling his palm while Joe filled his ass, the sensation of skin-on-skin a thousand times better than any man-made material could ever be. Joe touched, and loved. “You are so damn beautiful,” he said worshipfully.

Methos’s eyes flew open…then he squeezed them shut and began to ride Joe with even more desperation, powerful thighs flexing as he rose and fell. Joe saw the sweat breaking out on the newly tanned skin as Methos fought for his pleasure, and Joe let himself be carried along, arching his back to thrust a little deeper as his own need became unbearable. They rocked against each other in frantic rhythm for several moments, the pleasure building until it was almost pain. Then Methos gathered Joe’s hands to his heart and fucked down hard, taking every last millimeter of Joe’s length inside, and suddenly Joe was coming, spurting into his lover’s body with a force that shocked him. The formerly rhythmic movements of Methos’s thighs dissolved into uncoordinated shaking as he followed …

…and then everything was still. Profoundly still, the kind of stillness where the only sound to be heard was the sound of their breathing, and the only movement in the entire world seemed to be the quiet motion of Methos silently pulling his body free and laying down at Joe’s side. They were quiet for a while, savoring it. Then Joe moved to spoon up against his lover’s back, pressing his lips to Methos’s salty, sweaty shoulder while Methos twined their fingers together. “Love you,” Joe whispered.

“I love you more than any person, male or female, mortal or Immortal, who has ever walked the face of the earth,” Methos answered, with so little sense of dramatics or exaggeration that Joe didn’t even think to question the statement, or wonder why he was making it now. They stayed like that, hands entwined, until Joe was certain his lover had drifted into a post-orgasmic nap. He was about to close his eyes and fall asleep himself when Methos suddenly spoke. “We’ll need to pack up our luggage first thing in the morning, Joe.”

“Mmm?” It took Joe a moment to shake off his own sleepiness and refocus on the present. “We will? How come?”

“Because this is the last night we’re going to stay at this hotel. I want to take us someplace special.” Methos shifted to get more comfortable on his pillow. “And there’s no point in asking me where, either. You’ll see where it is when we get there.”

Joe hid a smile. Methos always waited until just after they’d made love to get dictatorial—probably because he knew that it was the one time Joe would let him get away with anything, or at least would be too exhausted to argue. Not that Joe *wanted* to argue. This trip had been Methos’s idea from the beginning, his adventure to plot and plan. If he wanted to change the itinerary now, Joe had no objections. “Okay,” he agreed with a yawn, and felt Methos’s body, which had been slightly tense, relax completely. Joe smiled sleepily and closed his eyes.

***

Methos was true to his word. The next morning, they did indeed pack their things. But instead of moving to a different hotel as Joe had half expected, Methos led him down to the docks: to the gangplank of the beautiful sailboat he’d hired, one of the many that existed on Santorini for the convenience of the tourists. They had an amazing day, fishing in the morning, then simply relaxing on the deck as they glided over the blue-green water. Or at least, *Joe* relaxed. Methos had hit it off with the crew as if they were long lost relatives…and perhaps they were, by virtue of one of Methos’s many ancient marriages, if not by blood. Methos was now chatting with them animatedly, laughing and joking as he took a hand with the rigging. Joe’s spoken Greek wasn’t nearly as good as his written, but he caught enough to overhear the crew teasingly suggest that Methos knew a bit too much about sailboats to be an ordinary tourist, and Methos laughingly reply that he might indeed have done quite a bit of sailing, once. In his youth. Many, many summers ago. The excuse seemed to work. The crew had accepted Methos as one of their own, and Methos now appeared to be having the time of his life, the wind tousling his hair as he pulled on ropes and called out merry insults in bawdy Greek. Joe, once again caught in the wonderful dilemma of having to choose between admiring the scenery or his lovely, laughing lover, could only smile. And shake his head when he considered just how close he’d come to missing this. 

When Methos had first suggested spending their vacation in Santorini, Joe hadn’t wanted to come. He knew that Methos had taken Alexa there for their honeymoon—if Joe closed his eyes, he could still hear Alexa’s excited voice telling him all about it over the crackling long-distance connection to the bar. Joe didn’t want his and Methos’s first real vacation together to be haunted by Alexa’s memory. But Methos had been insistent. “I don’t want to take you there because of Alexa, Joe,” he’d said patiently. “I want to take you because of *you*. Because Santorini is special to me, and I want to share it with you. Okay?”

Joe had been skeptical. But eventually he’d conceded that if he wanted to go someplace Methos had never visited with a person he’d loved, he might as well give up and vacation in Antarctica…and so he’d given in and allowed Methos to book the trip. He was now very, very glad he had. As they’d toured the island, walking the beaches and visiting the ancient ruins, Joe had come to realize that Santorini wasn’t just special because it held some of Methos’s happiest memories of Alexa. It was special because it held some of Methos’s happiest memories, period. The old Immortal had returned to the island again and again over the millennia; it seemed to be one of the few places on earth where nothing bad had ever happened to him, no accidental deaths, no loved ones lost in horrible ways. And there was more to it than that. There was something about the island itself that seemed to fit Methos like a glove. 

The moment they’d stepped off the ferry, everything about Methos’s body language had changed. He’d unfurled like a flower in sunshine, standing tall and free, shoulders held back and chest swelling as he breathed more easily than he ever breathed in London. Now, watching as Methos joyfully helped the crew hoist a sail, Joe could only look and wonder. He’d always assumed that Methos’s habitual shy, stoop-shouldered posture had been an affectation, part of the camouflage he’d adopted to make mortals assume he was one of them and Immortals believe he was no threat. But for the first time Joe was forced to consider another possibility: could Methos simply have been cold, instead? He and Joe had always lived in relatively rainy, chilly climates after all. Neither London nor Seacouver nor Paris were exactly known for their sunshine. And while Methos didn’t know where he’d been born (“I couldn’t find it if you paid me, Joe. Landforms can change a *lot* in 5,000 years. And it’s not like we had GPS satellites back then to tell us where we were.”) whenever he did talk about his long-lost childhood, he always mentioned two things. First, he talked about how clear the stars had been millennium before any polluting electric light, and secondly, how warm it had been the entire year ‘round. Frowning, Joe waited until his lover, wiping his brow theatrically as he humorously turned down the crew’s further invitations for help, flopped down at Joe’s side. Then he spoke in a soft undertone. “Methos?”

“Yes, Joe?”

“Have you ever thought about where we’re going to go next? When it’s time to change our names and start over, I mean?”

Methos looked startled. “No, not really,” he answered after a moment’s thought. “I guess I’d always assumed I’d let you pick. Since it was my idea to move to London.” 

“You didn’t hear me arguing, did you?” 

“No,” Methos agreed. “It was long past time to get away from Paris for a while. And I think you’ve enjoyed living in England, on the whole. Especially when the executors of my ‘Uncle Ben’s’ estate finally succeeded in tracking me down and gave me the keys to the old country house in Hertfordshire, so we had someplace to go on weekends...”

“Oh, yeah. Did I ever tell you how much I admired your Uncle Ben’s taste in architecture?”

“Frequently,” Methos said with a smile. “As I saying: I think the move to England worked out better than either of us could have hoped for. Nevertheless, it *was* my idea to take the Chief Archivist’s job at the Watcher Library in London, and I know it was hard for you to leave Les Blues. So I always figured it would only be fair to let you pick where we went next.” He looked at Joe curiously. “Why bring this up now, Joe? It’s not something we have to think about for a few years at least.” 

“No, but it’s coming, isn’t it?” Joe reached out and lightly touched one of the subtle hints of grey Methos had started artificially adding to his hair. “We celebrated Adam Pierson’s 40th birthday this year, love. We both know there’s no way you can push him to 50.”

“Probably not. But 44, 45, 46…that I can manage, if I’m careful. We’ve been happy in London, Joe. There’s no reason to end our lives there prematurely.” Methos smiled. “Unless the charms of the islands have given you crazy ideas about trading in your guitar for a sailboat.”

“Is it such a crazy idea?”

Methos blinked. “No-o-o,” he said slowly, clearly never having considered the thought seriously before. “Not crazy, not exactly. But it would be a big change, Joe. New language, new climate, new customs…”

“That doesn’t scare me.”

“No.” Methos regarded him with the serious, admiring gaze that always made Joe feel like Methos was looking through him into his very soul…and seeing riches there that not even Joe had ever suspected he possessed. “There’s really very little that scares you, is there, Joe.” Joe looked away, embarrassed. Methos stretched backward, regarding the sky and the surf with an appraising eye. “I supposed we could make a go of it,” he said speculatively. “It would be hard to keep out of sight, though. Santorini’s really a very small community, and much too popular a tourist attraction. If we fake our deaths and then one of our Watcher colleagues comes here on vacation…”

“Oh. Yeah. Yeah, that wouldn’t be good.” Joe felt himself turning pale. Methos was wrong—there were lots of things that scared him, and the Watchers learning that Adam Pierson was Immortal was right at the top of the list. It wouldn’t be so bad if the discoverer was one of their immediate co-workers; Joe and Methos had made a lot of good friends during their time in London, and Joe was sure that none of them were the sort to behead first and ask questions later. But the higher echelons had undergone a major reshuffle recently, and both the new Asian and the new European Heads of Operations had some very old-fashioned ideas about loyalty and treason. Security was tightening up everywhere. Joe was once again seeing the warning signs that the Watchers were starting to transition from being a pseudo-scholarly institution to a pseudo-military one, and he suspected that by the time he and Methos actually started their new lives, the kinder, gentler Watchers he’d worked so hard to rebuild after the Jacob Galati tragedy would truly be a thing of the past. Discovery would be disastrous. “Okay, not Santorini,” Joe said, suppressing a shiver. “But wherever we end up, it has to be someplace warm.”

“Why?”

Joe started to share his Methosian-posture-equals-cold-Immortal theory. He only got about halfway through before Methos started laughing. “Don’t laugh,” Joe said, mildly annoyed. “It’s true, isn’t it? The reason why you always walk around with your back hunched and your shoulders up around your ears is because you’re cold. After all, you grew up in a hot, equatorial climate. I should have figured it out sooner.”

“The things I let myself in for when I pledged my troth to a Watcher,” Methos said wryly. “All right. Yes, if you must know, I did grow up in a much warmer climate than we’ve been living in lately. And if you press me, I will admit that I *have* found London to be a bit on the chilly side these last few years. But that’s no reason to rush into a decision about where we’re going to live.” He gave Joe a look of exasperated affection. “Wherever we end up, it’ll be because it’s best for both of us. Understand?”

“I understand,” Joe answered. But when Methos, with the air of a man who has said the final word on a subject, spread a towel out on the deck and stretched out shirtless to sunbathe, Joe couldn’t help but take in the expanse of tanned skin and lithe muscle with an admiring eye. “Definitely someplace warm,” he said under his breath, and went to join his lover in the sun.

***

For the rest of his life, Joe would remember the rest of that afternoon as an exercise in pure perfection. He and Methos only spoke a few words to each other, and they didn’t fish or play games: they just experienced, feeling the rocking glide of the boat and the wind and sunshine caressing their skins. Joe was content to let it be so. He didn’t ask any questions about where they were going next, since he trusted absolutely that whatever Methos had planned for them, it would be wonderful. But when the sun began to slip low into the sky with no sign of the boat returning to land, Joe did start to wonder just where they were going to spend the night. “Methos?” he said.

“Yes, Joe?”

“Looks like it’s getting late. Shouldn’t we be heading back to shore about now?”

“We-elll…” Methos smiled the smile Joe privately thought must have inspired Lewis Carroll to create the Cheshire Cat. It always told Joe that his lover was up to something. “I suppose now’s as good a time to tell you as any. We’re not going back to Santorini tonight.”

“You’re planning to make me spend the night in one of those hammocks below deck, then?”

“Hardly.” The Cheshire-cat grin deepened. “I do have a surprise in store, Joe, but it doesn’t involve hammocks. You’re just going to have to wait and see.”

“Hmmmph,” Joe said. Strange. Ten minutes ago he’d been perfectly happy just to sit and let the day unfold. But now, knowing that Methos had a secret…and worse, that it was the kind of secret that filled his eyes with sparkles and kept him continually grinning like an idiot—filled Joe with a deep desire to inflict some minor tortures on his lover until he spilled the truth. He kept quiet, though, and managed to wait with more or less good grace until a small island came into view. It was tiny, little more than a circular stretch of beach with single building in the center, a building that was much more hut than home. But the island had a well-built dock, large enough to accommodate the sailboat, and as the crew prepared to land Methos looked out on the island with intense satisfaction. “Ah,” he said. “Home sweet home.”

“Home sweet home?”

“Well, home for tonight,” Methos corrected. “I rented it. The crew will help us unload our luggage and provisions for the night, then they’ll sail away and leave us alone. They’ll be back for us sometime tomorrow afternoon.”

“I don’t believe this.” Joe looked out at the island with new eyes, seeing past the rather Spartan accommodations to the place’s inherent beauty. It *was* a lovely spot, right out of a picture postcard of paradise. It was just…”You rented an *island*?”

“I did.”

“But why?”

“So we could have a completely private beach, of course,” Methos answered matter-of-factly. “I have big plans for you tonight, Joe Dawson. First, I’m going to build a fire pit in the sand and cook that humungous bass you caught this morning the old fashioned way—you haven’t lived until you’ve eaten fresh-caught fish cooked over a driftwood fire…”

“Couldn’t we have done that back on Santorini?”

“Maybe, if I spent half a day arranging the proper permits. This seemed simpler. And we certainly couldn’t have indulged in the second part of the evening’s entertainment where any tourist could trip over us.” 

“And just what entertainment would that be?” Joe asked, amused. “Recreating the love scene from ‘From here to Eternity?’”

“Mmm. Possibly, but not exactly what I had in mind.” Methos lowered his voice further still. “I wanted to treat you to your first moonlit ocean swim.”

Joe’s mouth dropped open, but all Methos did was smile. He grabbed a cooler and started helping the crew organize their supplies.

Dinner that night was extraordinary. Methos definitely knew what he was doing when it came to cooking over an open fire—yet another facet of his extraordinary lover that Joe had never had a chance to see. And there could be no question that Methos had come prepared. Besides the cooler full of fish they’d caught that morning, the sailors had offloaded several ice chests full of fruit and cheese and some very nice Grecian wine, enough to make a meal fit for a king. Joe was not immune to either the meal or the amount of planning it had taken Methos to pull it off. Nevertheless, he ate nervously, repeatedly eyeing the waves where they lapped up on the beach. When the last bite of perfectly prepared fish had been nibbled from its kebab, Joe cleared his throat apprehensively. “Methos…”

“Yes, Joe?”

“About this swimming thing…”

His Immortal lover smiled ruefully. “I knew I shouldn’t have mentioned that so early,” he said. “Relax, Joe. We still have desert to go. And then a half hour to wait after that. We don’t want you to get stomach cramps.”

“You still believe that old wives’ tale?”

“Why wouldn’t I? Old wives hold much of the wisdom of our species,” Methos answered easily. “I’m not taking any chances with you, Joe. You’re much too important.”

“Yeah.” Joe looked awkwardly down at the beach blanket Methos had spread. “Look. About that. It’s not that I don’t appreciate what you’re trying to do. I mean, nobody’s ever rented an entire island for me before…”

“Really? Are you trying to tell me I married an island-rental virgin? I’m shocked.”

Joe tossed a napkin him. It hit Methos squarely in the chest, much to the Immortal’s apparent amusement. “I’m trying to be serious, Methos.”

“Yes, I know.” Methos set the napkin aside and leaned forward, all traces of teasing gone. “Joe. Do you trust me?”

“You know I do.”

“Are you sure? Because I’ve been thinking about what you said, back on the sailboat. About the two of us having to start over soon.” Methos’s eyes darkened subtly. “You’re right, you know. Adam Pierson can’t masquerade as a normally aging mortal indefinitely. I hadn’t wanted to think about it, but eventually we will have to move on. And when we do…well, you really will be following me into terra incognita, Joe. We’ll have to count on each other completely, because to everyone else in our world we’ll be dead. In comparison, following me into the ocean for a moonlit swim will seem like child’s play.” Methos sounded calm, but Joe knew him well enough not to be fooled. His beloved was genuinely concerned. “So what will it be, Joe?” Methos asked. “Do you trust me enough to follow me into the unknown? To take care of you and see to it that everything turns out all right?”

Joe softened. “Put like that, I guess that great big ocean doesn’t seem so scary after all,” he said. “And you know better, Methos. There is no life for me that doesn’t have you in it. I think I’ve proven by now that I’ll gladly follow you anywhere.” Methos nodded soberly. Joe stretched thoughtfully. “However, in this case I *would* like to finish eating first. Didn’t you say something about desert?”

“It’s in the hamper,” Methos answered, a hint of a smile returning to his face. “Or the ingredients are, at least. Some assembly is required, I’m afraid.”

Joe arched an eyebrow. “Well, don’t leave me in suspense,” he said. “What did you bring? I wouldn’t put anything past you, you know. Did you figure out a way to make Cherries Jubilee over an open fire? Or maybe a Baked Alaska?”

Methos’s smile became full fledged, and for the dozenth time since their vacation began, Joe fell in love with him all over again at the sight. “I brought chocolate, marshmallows, and graham crackers,” Methos answered. “I though we could try our hands at making s’mores.”

“S’mores. That’s *perfect*,” Joe said. “Do you have any idea how long it’s been since I toasted a marshmallow over a fire?” Methos merely shrugged smugly. Joe looked at his lover admiringly. “Do you have any idea how much I love you right now?”

“I may be beginning to get a hint.”

Much as he loved the traditional camping treat, Joe never would have considered s’mores to be one of the world’s most erotic foods…but that evening changed his mind. It was the melted chocolate that did the trick, of course—chocolate that ran onto sexy Immortal fingers and simply had to be licked away, along with the equally lick-able bits of marshmallow and graham cracker crumbs that clung to Immortal lips. Joe was more than happy to volunteer to do the licking, and by the time they’d emptied their first packet of crackers he’d given up completely on making any of the desserts for himself. It was much more fun to watch Methos make them, and then steal the remains of the flavor from Methos’s tongue when they kissed. Methos grumbled a bit about being forced to do all the work, but it was relatively easy to silence him. They ended up lying together on the picnic blanket, kissing lazily while the last marshmallows melted off their skewers and dripped into the fire unheeded. Joe’s hands wandered easily under Methos’s gauzy island shirt, and he started to undo the drawstring on Methos’s pants, but Methos stopped him. “Later,” he said. “Right now I want to watch the sun go down.”

“Hmmmph,” Joe grumbled, but he truly didn’t feel all that deprived. It was wonderful, just lying in Methos’s arms while the heavens put on the most gorgeous lightshow for them overhead, the setting sun turning everything on the island an incredible shade of rosy gold. When the sun had finally slipped over the horizon, Methos sighed happily and got to his feet. “Tide’s starting to come in,” he said, and held out his hand. “I think it’s finally time for that swim. Are you ready to follow me, Joe?”

“Anywhere.” He let Methos assist him to his feet, then he followed him down the beach. 

It felt strange, taking off his clothes in the open air. Methos led him to the very edge of the ocean and started undoing Joe’s shirt buttons, hands as slow and careful as if he was preparing Joe for a holy rite. When the shirt was gone he helped Joe lower himself onto the sand so he could take off his pants and legs. Joe knew it was silly to feel as exposed as he did, given that the sailing crew was long gone and Methos was the only one there to see him. Nevertheless, he felt more naked than he had for a long time, and the unfamiliar gritty feeling of soft sand against his bare ass just made the feeling that much worse. “Joe,” Methos said. “I’m going to take our stuff further up the beach. I don’t want to take a chance on the tide stealing your legs while we’re in the water. I’ll just be gone a minute. Will you be okay?”

“Yeah. Yeah, go ahead. Take your time.” 

Frankly, Joe was just as glad to have a minute to himself. The tide really was rising very quickly now, and little waves were lapping just a few inches from Joe’s stumps. He used his arms to scoot closer to the water, and almost jumped out of his skin when a small wavelet broke against his thigh. Panicked, Joe wondered if he could really make himself go through with this. The ocean was so big, so strong and uncontrollable, and who was he? Just a naked, crippled middle-aged man who’d hadn’t swum since his time at the VA hospital more than thirty years before. There was no way he could do this. But Methos *wanted* him to do this…and so Joe would find a way, somehow. He took a deep breath and pushed himself deeper into the sea. 

Water enveloped his thighs, damp sand shifted beneath his hips. Joe frowned, surprised. The water was warmer than he’d expected, and the ocean’s touch was gentle and soft, much like a lover’s caress. Joe finally began to understand what Methos had meant about the ocean being different from a swimming pool. The water hadn’t been tamed and sanitized here, wasn’t captured and dead; it really was a living thing unto itself. Friendly. Welcoming, just as Methos had said. Curiously, Joe pushed himself deeper still, and made a small sound of astonishment as the ends of his thighs actually started to float, waving softly underneath the water. Maybe, just maybe, he could do this after all.

Experimentally, Joe sank his hands into the sand about a foot below the water, shivering as the soft wet grains molded around his fingers. He was so engrossed by the unfamiliar texture that he didn’t hear Methos approach. But suddenly he was there, sitting down behind him, warm broad chest pressing into Joe’s back as Methos wrapped his arms around Joe’s waist and stuck his legs into the water on Joe’s either side. “Good?” he asked.

“Amazing,” Joe answered, looking down at his floating legs. “It’s—I can’t describe it. But you were right. It *is* different here.”

“Told you,” Methos answered happily. He dipped a finger in the water, then used it to paint a cool, shivering trail over Joe’s chest. “Are you ready for more?” 

Joe’s breath caught. “Just what did you have in mind?”

“More swimming, of course,” Methos answered, sounding amused. He pressed a kiss to Joe’s shoulder. “I thought you might enjoy getting a little farther away from the beach.”

The very thought made Joe’s heart pound with fear. But he nodded, and Methos wrapped his arms more securely around his body. Together, foot by laborious foot, they moved deeper into the sea, Methos providing most of the muscle while he kept a careful hold on Joe’s chest. Joe felt his panic really begin when the water reached his shoulders and he started to float in earnest, ass lifting up from the sand. But Methos was there behind him, to anchor and reassure; with many encouraging words he guided Joe’s head back, urging Joe to just relax and let the water hold him. It took a supreme act of faith for Joe to let go of Methos’s arm and do just that, especially when he felt the water seep into his ears. But then—oh, then the miracle happened. Joe didn’t sink. For a moment he thought Methos was doing it, somehow holding him aloft. But no. Methos was still behind him, but his only contact with Joe was a light hand on his shoulder, not supporting him at all. Joe tried to lift his head out of the water so he could hear himself speak, and instinctively, his arms spread out to the side to give himself more buoyancy. His body responded by gently moving forward, and Joe hurriedly started moving his arms in slow circles to stay in place, the legless equivalent of treading water he’d learned so long ago at the VA. “Methos,” he said in wonder. “I think I’m swimming.”

“You certainly are,” Methos answered, so much love and pride in his voice that if he hadn’t already been floating, his tone alone would have made Joe fly. “Do you remember how to turn yourself around?” 

“I think so. It’s all coming back to me…holy shit!” Maybe it was true, maybe there were some things you never forgot. With a mighty shove of his arms, Joe pushed himself away from the shelter of Methos’s body, twisting away in the surf. He heard Methos’s delighted laugh as he pushed again, this time sending himself straight out into the ocean, away from the shallow water near the shore. And suddenly, Joe really was swimming in the sea. For the first time since a certain land mine in Vietnam had exploded under his feet.

It was heaven. It was bliss. Joe felt weightless, completely graceful and in control, the feeling of the cool water sliding over his naked flesh just adding to the pleasure. He was thrilled to discover that he was actually stronger than he’d been in the VA’s swimming pool at 18; 32 years of relying on his upper body for everything had left him with muscles the young Joe Dawson simply hadn’t had, and Joe put them to work, pulling himself through the waves with a power that surprised him. Maybe his half legs weren’t as efficient against the surf as a pair of whole ones would have been, but it hardly seemed to matter. His arms did most of the work, and the buoyant, friendly water did the rest. Joe rolled onto his chest and ducked his head under, feeling the strange sensation of his short hair floating away from his head. Then he surfaced, laughing like a child as he blew the water from his nose. “Well, what are you still doing there?” he called back to his lover, whose shadowy figure was still right where Joe had left him. “The water’s fine!”

In the thickening twilight, it was hard to make out Methos’s face, but Joe thought he saw a smile. Fluid as a seal, Methos dove under the water, disappearing from view. A few moments later Joe felt a familiar tap on his shoulder. He turned, and was promptly confronted with a face full of saltwater as Methos splashed him. The second Joe finished sputtering and it was obvious he wasn’t hurt, Methos swam away, laughing like a loon. Joe’s eyes narrowed, and then an answering laugh came from his own throat. He instantly took off after him, determined to do as he’d been done by.

What a feeling, to be able to chase after his lover so freely, hindered by neither limp nor cane! It was better still to catch him, to grab onto those strong shoulders for a quick but passionate kiss, then smirk and splash him and swim away in turn, knowing that Methos would actually have to work to catch up with him. They played their grown-up game of tag, claiming kisses that grew more heated with each round, until the last of the twilight vanished. Then Methos, holding onto Joe’s shoulder while they tread water together, silently pointed at the sky. 

Joe looked up, and gasped. Sometime during their game, the sky had changed into deep blue velvet, and someone had scattered a handful of diamonds across it. “Holy…” Joe began, dazzled by their fire, and then he saw the moon. Only half risen over the horizon, it gleamed like a giant piece of gold, bigger and more beautiful than anything on this planet had a right to be. Joe shook his head. “Did you arrange that too?” he asked in wonder.

“No. Some things are just serendipity,” Methos answered. His voice was quiet, barely audible over the lapping surf. “Glad we came?”

“You have no idea,” Joe breathed. He didn’t know where to look. His eyes kept moving between the moon on the horizon and the wealth of stars overhead, trying to gather it all in. Methos swam around behind him, taking Joe’s arm in the classic lifeguard’s hold. Joe sighed and let himself go limp, allowing his lover’s strong, sure strokes to carry them both back to the shore while Joe stared up at the sky, trying to press ever single detail into his memory. He was startled when he felt the first touch of sand against his back, but Methos gently guided him onto the beach, carefully arranging Joe’s body so that his head and shoulders were cradled in the sand but his chest and hips were underwater and his legs still floated free. It was a bit like lying in a bed with the ocean for a blanket, and Joe sighed a sigh of complete ecstasy as he relaxed, letting the beach and water carry all his weight. Methos settled in at his side, and Joe felt a set of strong fingers twine though his own. “Thank you,” Joe said simply.

“Oh, Joe.” Methos freed Joe’s hand and rolled over, covering Joe’s body with his own. It was so dark now that most of the details of Methos’s face were lost to Joe, but he could see still make out his eyes: great dark caverns that shone darkly like the sea, so beautiful that Joe gladly forgot both stars and moon. Then Methos kissed him, and Joe closed his eyes and surrendered vision altogether in favor of his other senses. He breathed in the ocean breeze and the unique fragrance of Methos’s skin. He tasted saltwater and lust on his lover’s lips. He felt the first jolt of desire go through his body as Methos’s hands stroked over his chest, caressing away the saltwater and sand that clung there, and silenced Joe’s heartfelt moans with an equally heartfelt kiss. As always, Methos managed to communicate everything he felt for Joe within that kiss: the passion, the tenderness, even the ever-present fear that Joe would still somehow find a reason to reject him and end this perfect bliss. Joe shook his head frantically and kissed back with even greater passion. When Methos pulled away and the magnificence of the sky once again exploded before Joe’s eyes, Joe was startled to feel a warm tear…not his own…trickling down his cheekbone. “You’re still afraid,” Joe said in wonder. “Even after all this time. You still think there’s a chance I might leave you.”

“It still seems too good to be true,” Methos answered shakily. He gestured at the ocean behind them. “I mean, just look at this place, Joe. The sky. The sea. The fact that you’re here with me at all, let alone that we’re about to make love on our very own Grecian beach. Doesn’t it all seem…a little unreal…to you? Like it all could disappear at any moment?”

“No.” Joe answered. “No.” He took Methos’s hand and guided it to his chest. Both of them shivered as Methos’s fingers brushed Joe’s nipple and Joe’s heartbeat leapt under Methos’s palm. “We won’t let it,” Joe said simply. And kissed him again.

They began making love in earnest, hands roaming everywhere, bodies rocking gently against each other in the surf. To Joe, the world suddenly seemed to be made out of contrasts: the brilliant light of stars against the darkness of the sky. The gentle lap, lap sound of the tide mixed with the blood rushing in his ears. The cold kiss of the water compared with the hot touch of Methos’s skin—yes, this last most of all, especially when Methos’s hand slipped under the water to tease Joe’s erection with his fingertips. Such a strange sensation, being so hard underwater, feeling himself throb while the ocean gently flowed around his flesh. It was stranger still to feel Methos’s hand brush up against him, making his cock sway, treating him to sensations both old and new as the knowing hand slid teasingly over his shaft and different temperatures of water swirled around his crown. So strange, so intense, so good…Joe made a sobbing sound and Methos let him go, suddenly sliding two hands under his ass so he could push him farther up the beach, out of the water’s embrace. The sensation of his hard cock breaking free of the water was almost painful; the air felt cold, too cold, and Joe’s erection started to falter from the shock. But then Methos was kneeling between his thighs, and Methos’s mouth was swallowing him down, and Joe’s hands were fisting helplessly in the sand as his cock swelled to unprecedented size within that soft wet heat. 

God. Joe know that mouth so well now, knew every trick of pleasure it could bestow; he knew exactly how good it felt to have Methos hum as his tongue lightly teased Joe’s crown, and how soft Methos’s lips felt gliding down his shaft. But he was unprepared for the feeling of the wind chilling his saliva-soaked cock every time Methos pulled back, and startled by the way the stars seemed to dance and blur before his eyes as he tossed his head against the sand. The tide kept lapping over his lower body, caressing his thighs, teasing his asshole; it almost felt like Joe had two lovers, one engulfing his erection in sweet sucking heat, the other running cool, liquid fingers over his ass and teasing the back of his sac. The combination made him shout, and filled him with even deeper hungers than Methos’s mouth, sweet as it was, could satisfy. He shifted slightly, to encourage Methos to let him go, and when it became obvious that Methos was not about to relinquish his mouthful Joe reached down to lightly touch his hair. “Methos,” he said. “Stop.”

Methos let him go with a wild sob, voice so needy and aroused Joe almost came just at the sound. “Oh, god, don’t make me stop,” Methos panted desperately. “Need you so bad. Need to taste you, need to feel you come...”

“I know,” Joe answered shakily, and quickly had to stop Methos before he once again dropped his mouth over Joe’s erection. “But I think you need more than that. And so do I.”

Methos froze solid. Joe waited patiently, although his whole body was screaming for an answer, a yes or no. At last the Immortal said, sounding distracted: “I didn’t bring anything, Joe. We used up the last of the lube at the hotel last night. I meant to put some extra olive oil in the hamper, but…”

“I trust you.” Joe’s voice was steady and strong. He lowered his arms back down to the beach, eyes searching for his lover’s in the dark. “Give me what I need.”

He lifted his thighs in the air. Methos gave a hopeless, helpless gasp, and Joe knew why. It wasn’t a position Joe often offered. Because sometimes, even after all these years, when Joe lay inside Methos’s arms he still felt flawed; lying on his back and lifting his stumps in the air just made it so terribly obvious what was missing from them, how he could never hope to match his lover’s perfection. It was better, then, to simply lie on his side while Methos had him, so he could bury his face in a pillow and pretend…But tonight, he felt so different. He felt whole and perfect and completely unafraid. And Methos must have somehow known. Because he did something he almost never offered, either. He raised his mouth from Joe’s groin and began to kiss Joe’s broken knees, licking and sucking at the different textures of scar tissue there, tasting him with the same insatiable hunger with which he had sucked on Joe’s cock. And Joe, whose entire body began to ache with an answering hunger, finally got it. How sexy Methos found his legs, how beautiful. How Methos’s mouth genuinely delighted in the taste of Joe’s skin there, tongue tracing every scar and dimple, and how his hand loved to touch, taking pleasure in the shapes of Joe’s truncated muscles and the strength they still held. Joe got it. He was desired. He was wanted. For the very things that everyone else in his life had been too uncomfortable to even glance at, much less to really see…

It wasn’t poetry. It was truth. Joe really would follow this man to the ends of the earth.

The moon rose over Methos’s shoulders as Joe reached down to cup his own ass, offering himself in a gesture that was both humble and demanding. The golden circle of light completely dazzled Joe’s eyes, making the rest of the night disappear as Methos quickly slicked his fingers with saliva and began to touch him, teasing, circling, making Joe impatiently beg for more. Two of Methos’s fingers quickly pressed inside, and yes, maybe there was a bit more pain than there usually was when they did this, a little more fire as his greedy skin sought to grip his lover’s fingers tight, friction not allowing them to slide. But Joe had had years to get used to this man’s touch, this man’s love, and his body knew what to do. Joe felt himself soften around Methos’s fingers, beginning to welcome instead of resist, and he heard Methos groan in response. The Immortal removed his fingers and pressed his damp, dripping cock against Joe’s opening, then groaned again and stilled, forcing himself to hold back until Joe was truly ready. The moon was huge. The moon was dazzling. Joe held his breath and bore down.

Fuck. The lack of lube meant he felt everything so much more…felt every degree of Methos’s searing heat, felt the bluntness and the hardness and every single detail of Methos’s aroused shape, right down to the slight asymmetry of his crown. Methos’s hips gave a helpless, instinctive little thrust, and Joe hissed as he felt himself be well and truly breached. That magnificent cock head sank into him, bringing fire and pressure and a pleasure so intense all he could do was grab Methos’s shoulders and try to hang on. Methos, whole body trembling from the effort of self restraint, gave a second, gentler thrust, sheathing himself more deeply within Joe’s heat…and then they were finally fucking, although it was completely unlike any other fucking Joe had ever done. No thrusts, no athletic movements at all—Methos just *stayed* in him. Holding him open, pressing against his inner walls, occasionally shifting slightly to rub against a different spot but never doing anything that would cause more friction and pain. Without feet to push against Joe lacked the leverage to really do anything to change this, but Methos’s hands gripped his pelvis anyway, forcing him to be still. To do nothing but feel. And it felt incredible. Like being loved…

Joe would never know how long they stayed like, Methos buried inside him, the ragged rhythm of their breathing matching the rhythm of the lapping waves. Had it felt like he had two lovers, back when Methos had first taken him in his mouth? It now felt like he had four—Methos, the water that teasingly splashed around their joining, the soft sand against his back, and the moon…whose light now seemed to be almost human, reaching down to caress Joe’s skin. He felt it. He wanted more. In the absence of motion from his larger muscles, his smaller ones took over: his abs rippled and jerked, his ass throbbed and squeezed. Methos groaned deep, deep in his throat and throbbed back frantically in response. Joe could feel him starting to climax, felt the first pulse of wet heat splash inside him, and the knowledge that all Methos needed to push him over the edge was simply to be in Joe’s body without moving made his own cock ache. He lay there, savoring it—feeling the pulsing and the ripples and the magnificent tension in the shoulders he clung to, until Methos at last went slack against him, cock beginning to soften beautifully inside. Even then, Joe was so focused on his beloved’s pleasure that he might have forgotten his own. Until he felt a strong hand wrap around his cock and a loving voice whisper in his ear:

“Joe. Follow me.”

Joe did.

~Fin~


End file.
